I
could write about how great it was to be with our son Jeremy and his family in
Maryland for Mother’s Day. I could say
how amazing the grandchildren are, how much I enjoyed Leo’s soccer game, the barbecue at their neighbor’s, the visit with a childhood friend, our Mother’s
Day brunch, and Seth’s Mother’s Day email from Berlin which, of course, made me
cry. All good.

Instead,
I want to write about gluten.

We
went to lunch after Leo’s soccer game.
The kids and Peter went to Five Guys, a hamburger place, and Katrina and
I went to Sweetgreen next door where the counter staff composed a gluten-free salad
per my direction but put a piece of bread on top of the greens. “No,” I shouted—you’ll have to start over—I
said I needed gluten-free.”

“Not
to worry”, they replied. “It’s
gluten-free bread!”

We
took our salads next door to join the males.
Five Guys makes their French fries in a dedicated fryer and they are therefore
gluten-free. I ate my first fast-food French
fry since my celiac diagnosis fourteen years age. It was heavenly.

That
night the neighbors offered piles of barbecued pork and chicken brought in for
their party. I planned to stick with the
raw veggies. But my daughter-in-law
called the barbecue place and they said I could eat all but the bread.

The
one disappointment was at Costco’s on Friday night where Peter and Jeremy
each had a huge ice cream dipped in chocolate and crushed almonds. The woman at the counter didn’t understand
what gluten was so I couldn’t join them.
Peter admitted it was fantastic.
I sulked.

But
when Jeremy called Costco customer service after our Mother’s Day Brunch and
learned that, in fact, that bar is gluten-free, we took a quick detour on the
way home, and Jeremy bought me my own ice cream bar dipped in chocolate and
crushed almonds. Delicious.

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I love your descriptions in this post and related immediately to "I sulked."

I am just back from three weeks in Turkey where I had some high moments in gluten-free eating and some very low ones. Perhaps my best moment was when a restaurant that my daughter found (she's my strongest advocate about gluten-free eating) served me gluten-free bread that I could dip into my own dish of olive oil. Yummy!

My lowest moment was when I had to carry back to our rental apartment 45 minutes away a very heavy bag full of what turned out to be delicious — for the others — tahini buns and almond cookies. As they opened the door, I handed it over saying something to the effect of, "I — the gluten-free person — just carried this very heavy bag all the way back here so you gluten eating gluttons could indulge in your gluten goodies." Do you hear the sulk in that?